


100,000 Nights

by Xyriath



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angel Shiro (Voltron), Demon Keith (Voltron), M/M, Sexual Coercion, Virgin Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-07 05:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: To end the war in heaven, the archangel Shiroganiel needs help from elsewhere—so he turns to an old enemy, a demon of hell, to strike a bargain.But Keith's services don't come cheap, and he demands a very personal, very carnal price.Only a night, Shiro promises himself, and he'll be able to help humanity.  Restore order in heaven alike.  Save countless lives.But one young demon might prove to be more than Shiro could ever bargain for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is inspired by [Sa's comic about a Supernatural AU that's been making the rounds](http://lightningstrikes-art.tumblr.com/post/177697866879/i-can-be-your-angleor-yuor-devil-read-left-to); however, I know approximately fuck-all about Supernatural lore and what I do know doesn't make sense; combine that with the fact that I initially misread the comic and my mind ran wild with a plot before I realized my mistake, and this story sort of went way off the rails of what I think it might have been intended to be. I apologize and hope it's enjoyable anyway? :D

Shiro is just starting to second-guess himself when smoke begins to rise from the ground.

It starts as wisps, black and ominous, from the dirt at the crossroads.  It solidifies into a dark column.  It gradually begins to take shape, coalescing into a distinctly human form.

The eyes take form first, the irises a bright red ring in sclera and pupils of pure black.

“Imagine my surprise,” the silhouette murmurs, stepping forward out of the waves of darkness, “when I found myself summoned by the archangel of the Lord himself.”  Teeth widen in a grin, an unearthly shade of white.  “It’s been a long time, Shiro.”

As the shadows fall away, Shiro takes in the form that remains: shaped like a man, a young one, maybe in his second decade at the very latest.  Fingerless gloves and a jacket, both made of leather, garish decorations adorning the lapels and studs adorning both the jacket and the young man’s ears.

A scar across his right cheek, a souvenir of their last meeting.

Shiro straightens, an unfamiliar instinct from the human form his celestial power takes when he chooses to walk the Earth.  Intimidation, Shiro thinks it might be, or—

No.  Certainly not pride.

The presence vanishes in wisps of smoke, and for a moment, Shiro thinks he’s lost his chance.  Before he can move, however, it swirls back into existence, long arms wrapped around Shiro’s neck in the parody of a lover’s embrace.

“Is that your blade in your pocket,” he asks with a grin, fangs gleaming in the hot sun, “or are you just happy to see me?”

Shiro’s lips curl back in a snarl of his own, and he plants a hand in the middle of the chest pressed up against him, thrusting the young man backwards.  He allows it, though not without a little pout alongside his smirk.

“I’m here to make a _deal_ , Keith,” Shiro says, voice clipped and professional.  He refuses to let his eyes linger on the short, lithe, almost slim form.

Keith sighs, conjuring up a cigarette from a wisp of shadow and holding it idly between two fingers, the nails painted black.  “What else was I supposed to think?  You’ve dressed so _nicely._ ”  His eyes rake up and down Shiro’s form—built and muscular, in what the humans call a three piece suit and a tie, as well as an overcoat draped over his broad shoulders.  “I’ll say, fashion’s certainly improved since… when was it we met last?  Prohibition?  But you seem to be stuck there, and I’m not complaining.

Shiro just watches him, impassive and unmoving, until Keith sighs, rolling his eyes and head.

“Fine.  Tell me, Feathers, what can I do for you?”  He places the cigarette between his lips and inhales.

Shiro pauses, readying himself.

“I need your help.  Heaven is… in chaos.  As I’m sure you know.  Without a leader, the infighting has only grown, and I can’t stand to see it any longer.”  He doesn’t mention the visible effect on the universe at large; he wants Keith to help him, not to stir up even more trouble.  “I need to overthrow the other archangels.  And I need dark quintessence to do it.”

Keith’s eyebrows lift, and Shiro allows himself a silent prayer of gratitude that he’d read Keith correctly.  His interest, his _amusement_ , keeps him here when most demons might scoff and turn away.

“Countless lives are at stake.”  Shiro knows Keith won’t care, but something in him hopes… but no.  Shiro shakes his head minutely.  “I know I can make things right if I’m their leader.  But the others will never follow me.  Not easily.”

Shiro can already tell, from the gleeful red flare of Keith’s irises, that this was a mistake.

But he can’t back down now.

“You must be _desperate_ if you’re coming to me for help,” Keith purrs, exhaling the smoke in Shiro’s direction.  Shiro’s nostrils flare slightly at the reek; he suppresses this form’s instinct to breathe with only little discomfort.  Those eyes haven’t left Shiro, and he tries to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of being assessed with totally different standards than usual.

“Can you do it or not?” he snaps, fixing Keith with a hard stare.  He won’t be swayed by such transparent attempts at manipulation.

“For you?”  Keith hums, tilting his head, and Shiro hates how striking he finds the angle of the jawline, the sharpness of the chin.  The Creator’s vision is perfect and absolute, of course, but at times, as an imperfect creature himself, Shiro has a difficult time seeing that.

Right now is not one of those times.

“I think I just might be able to.  But…”  Keith steps forward, tutting softly.  “An angel such as yourself, with your hands on that kind of power…”  He shakes his head.  “Demons, our makeup is swimming with the stuff—we can barely use it.  But someone as pure, as untouched as yourself…”  He reaches out to cup Shiro’s jaw, but Shiro jerks his head away before Keith can make contact.  “What I’d be giving you would be near-limitless.  It would be worth it, I think, just for the sight of what you’d do with it alone.”

“Tell me what you want, Keith,” Shiro says flatly.  There’s no chance that he’ll give this away for free.

“Pushy, pushy,” Keith sighs, taking a drag of the cigarette, flicking ash onto the ground.  “A hundred thousand souls.”

Shiro recoils at the words.  “A hundred _thousand?_ ” he hisses, horror prickling down his spine in an unsettlingly _human_ sensation.  “No.   _No._  Absolutely not.”

Keith hums, sidling back up to Shiro, but this time, Shiro doesn’t pull away.  Sweat breaks out on his forehead, the sensation unnaturally cool in the warm air, and he grinds his teeth together at the limitations of this physical form.  He has no doubt that Keith can read every emotion on Shiro’s human face.

“Such a small price to pay for unlimited power.  Surely you can’t deny that.”

“I don’t want this for myself, Keith, and you know—!”

“Of course!  Shiroganiel, always so righteous, _always_ fighting for what’s good—”

“Is that so wrong?”

Keith throws his head back and laughs, throaty and delighted.  “No, no, of course not.  And that’s what I find so funny.  You’re _always_ trying to do the right thing, aren’t you?  You really believe that it’s for the greater good.  You always do _everything_ for the greater good.  Never anything for yourself.”

“I know this,” Shiro says levelly.  “Do you have a point?”

“So many others of your kind… they say that, but they’re just kidding themselves.  They actually want the power.  And you don’t.”

Shiro grits his teeth once again, a frustrating human habit that’s going to be hard to break if he spends more time in this form.  “It’s not my place to say.”

“Do you think you’re better than them?”

Shiro recoils, but despite the word that wells up insistently— _no!_ —he forces it back.

_Thou shalt not lie._

“This isn’t relevant.”

“You need _me,_ Feathers.  I need amusement to stick around.  So my amusement is relevant.”

Shiro doesn’t respond.  If Keith wants to ramble, he’ll put up with it until he gets what he needs.

“But you, virtuous as always, doing the right thing.  But the right thing, here, is making a deal with a _demon!_ ”

“Or trying,” Shiro counters, lifting his chin.  “I won’t give you souls, Keith.  And you know that asking was a mistake.”

Keith just lets out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes and taking a drag from his cigarette.  “What else did you have to offer me, then, huh?  Believe it or not, seeing your pretty face isn’t enough.”

“There’s plenty else!  Pure quintessence—”

“Doesn’t do nearly as much for me as dark does for you.”

“Then a blind eye the next time we run into each other.”  Keith’s snort told Shiro all he needed to know about that option, so he braced himself.  “I could even… redemption is a difficult thing, but—”

A bark of laughter, but this time more nasty than amused.  “Give it up, Feathers.  It didn’t work in France; it won’t work here.  You need to learn what I _want._ ”

“Then what _do_ you want, Keith?  And don’t say souls.  It’s not going to happen.”

Keith watches Shiro consideringly, flicking his cigarette to the side and crossing his arms.  “I _suppose_ I could be convinced to lower the price.”

Hope jumps in Shiro’s chest.  “Tell me.”

“Would you pay with yourself, then?  Make the sacrifice instead of forcing others to do so.”

“I don’t _have_ a soul!”

“No, but you do have this.”  Keith darts forward, snagging Shiro’s tie before he can jerk back.  Instead of yanking roughly, however, he gently lifts the tie out of the vest, then smooths it down Shiro’s chest.  The fingers sear heat into the skin of the physical form Shiro wears, but not a single mark remains on the cloth.

“You could stand some fashion advice, I agree,” Shiro shoots back, dragging his eyes disdainfully from Keith’s bulky boots up to his unruly hair.  “If that was all you wanted—”

“A beautiful body, Shiroganiel.  My price?  A night of quality time with you, to be spent as I see fit.”

The words take a few moments to process, but as their meaning penetrates Shiro’s shock, he rears back.

“You red-eyed _bastard!_ ” Shiro spits.

“You have to give me _something_ , Feathers.  I want this.”

The silence lingers between the two of them as Shiro’s thoughts whirl.  He’s never even _considered_ anything carnal, let alone indulged.  But… it isn’t innocent souls.  And like Keith had said, Shiro would be the one to pay this price.  It would be completely, utterly on him.

“How much?” he asks quietly.

“One night, one soul.”  As Shiro begins to step back, unimpressed, Keith follows, three strides to Shiro’s one, and suddenly they’re very, _very_ close, black smoke curling around the both of them, now.  “Up to the full debt, if you’d prefer.”

A hundred thousand nights.  Nearly three centuries’ worth.  The same amount of time that Shiro has known Keith.

“Come on, Shiro.  You have _eternity_ , after all.  What’s a few nights here and there in the grand scheme of things?”  Keith slides a finger into Shiro’s belt loop.  “It’s a small price to pay.  And I promise the night won’t be _entirely_ unpleasant.”

Shiro scoffs at the implication that it would be anything but vile.

“Don’t believe me?  Fine; I’ll sweeten the pot.  If you don’t enjoy it, if I can’t please you, if you don’t _come—_ ”  His lips curl up in a smirk at Shiro’s expression at the crass words.  “—at least once over the course of the night, I’ll let you out of your end.  Consider the entire thing fulfilled.”

Just one night, then; Shiro has no doubt that he’ll derive no pleasure from the act.

“Do we have a deal, Feathers?”

Shiro watches Keith for a moment, then closes his eyes.

“Yes.”

Another throaty laugh.  “Good.  I’ve always wanted to corrupt an angel.  An archangel?  That’s an even sweeter treat.”

Shiro’s eyes open once again, and he meets Keith’s eyes, all red and black, gleaming with anticipation.  He steels himself; he won’t allow this to corrupt him.  He just has to play along for one night.  For the greater good.

He watches impassively.  Keith slides a hand around Shiro’s waist.  “And now to seal the contract.”

Shiro hasn’t done this before, either.  Not just with a demon.  Not with… anyone.  The sensation as Keith’s other hand slides up the back of Shiro’s neck, his head, is foreign and strangely… intimate.

Their lips meet, and Shiro inhales softly.  Woodsmoke and sulfur drifts into his nose, even the scent of something a little sharper—cinnamon, maybe?  The lips feel surprisingly soft and smooth against Shiro’s own, and he allows his eyes to drift closed.

And then Keith’s tongue slides into Shiro’s mouth, firm and filthy and determined, and something dark and terrifyingly delicious along with it.  Shiro gasps, eyes flying back open, wings flaring involuntarily out from his back in shock.  He yanks back with a gasp, Keith sighing with satisfaction, and whatever it is that Keith had put _inside_ him settles within the pit of his stomach.  It burns with a strange pleasure, radiating through him in an enticing warmth.

His eyes slide to Keith, who’s watching Shiro with a keen interest as he breathes in black smoke.  He steels himself, refusing to allow Keith to see the effect he’s had on Shiro.

Whatever that might be.

“Glad doing business with you, Shiro.  I look forward to our time together.”

That black smoke rises from the ground, twining around Keith like the caress of a lover.

Shiro opens his mouth, but nothing springs to his lips.

The shadows converge, and within a moment, the ground swallows everything.

Shiro is alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Humanity has grown so much in the last thirty years.

Shiro hasn’t seen Los Angeles since the near-catastrophe involving the pope; though angelic interference had resolved the situation with humanity none the wiser, something in the way the cities had stretched towards the sky, reaching for heaven, had left him with a spark of curiosity, almost wistfulness.  Since then, the city had only grown, and exponentially.  Taller, soaring buildings, packed crowds of vibrant humanity, a whirlwind of good and evil and purity and temptation in a variety that he never could have imagined in his wildest thoughts.

The others might have made a snide comparison to the Tower of Babel, but Shiro likes to think that the heart of it all comes from inspiration, not vanity.

A warm, balmy breeze, carried in from the ocean, ruffles through his hair, palm trees a dramatic contrast to concrete.  The air is cleaner than his last visit, a fact in which he takes some comfort—let it never be said that all humans seek is exploitation and destruction—although his form has no need of breathing.  He lingers longer than he should, perhaps, in examining the subway; though he’s of course seen plenty, the ingenuity of underground travel in the past century has its own, fascinating appeal.

He pauses as he reaches his destination, lifting his eyes to the filigreed doorway.  The Excelsior Hotel, gem of the city, regal and beautiful.

“You fit in so well here.  I like it.”

Shiro’s jaw tightens, and he turns.

Keith strides up, jacket unzipped to reveal a thin, white t-shirt.  Inside sinfully tight leather pants, long legs strode forward with effortless confidence.  Shiro forces his eyes back up to Keith’s face.

“I’m not here to fit in.  I’m here to complete a business transaction.”

“Oh, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun while we do it.  In fact, I intend on it.”

He walks two fingers up Shiro’s arm, but Shiro shakes him off dismissively.  “And I don’t.  Let’s get this over with.”  He starts towards the elevator, but fingers fist in the back of his jacket and yanks him to a stop.

“But _I_ do.  And you’re going to play along.”

Keith slips an arm through Shiro’s, leading him towards the receptionist.  Shiro hangs back for a moment, reluctantly, but eventually allows himself to be led.

“Good evening,” Keith drawls, voice smooth and rich as honey, to the woman behind the counter.  She glances up, irritation and disdain spreading across her features as she takes in Keith’s appearance, realization and resignation replacing them as her gaze flicks over to assess Shiro.

Shiro knows what she must think of him, and it leaves him sick.

“Yes.  Good evening.  Can I help you?”  She directs the question towards Shiro, neutral and polite.  Shiro can feel his chest tighten; it’s been decades since he’s spoken to a mortal, and to have his first conversation with one who thought him some sort of—

“Yeah, I’ve got a reservation for me and my… _friend_ , here,” Keith purrs.  His arm slides out of Shiro’s arm to hook around his waist, pulling him close.  Shiro can hear the wicked grin in his voice and feel the wicked heat of his body.  “Should be under a ‘Shirogane.’”

Shiro’s nostrils flare; he’d defiled Shiro’s own _name_ to make it a part of this?  He turns to glower at Keith, but he isn’t even looking over.

The woman taps expertly at her keyboard; the machines, Shiro notices, mind whirling for a train of thought that’s about anything other than Keith, have changed drastically as well.  So much smaller.  Sleeker.  More efficient.

Through the tightness in his throat, he does take a brief moment to reflect on how humans can do so much in so little time.  Their ingenuity, their determination—

“Here we are.  Mr. Shirogane?” she asks, butchering the pronunciation.  “The Divinity Suite is ready.  Please follow me.”

Shiro shoots a sharp look in Keith’s direction as she steps out from behind the counter, and he turns to smirk in return.

“Thought you’d appreciate it,” he faux-whispers, arm not moving from around Shiro as they both follow.

Shiro refuses to respond, having no choice but to follow, passing the men in tailored suits and the women in expensive dresses and being able to _smell_ the sin on those here with impure intentions.

But, he has no place to judge, after all.  Because hasn’t he become one of them, at least for tonight?

He steps into the elevator, not even protesting when Keith plucks the keycards out of the woman’s fingers and tucks them into an obscenely tight pocket.

The doors have barely closed before two hands grab his shoulders, slamming him into the wall.

Shiro tenses, prepared to vanish into a flash of celestial energy at the attack, but Keith doesn’t make another move after that.  They both stand still, frozen, Shiro pinned, faces very, very close.

“We could do it right here,” Keith breathes, and Shiro watches with reluctant fascination as the sclera of his eyes fade into black.  “I dropped enough fuckin’ money that they’d ignore us.  I’m as rich as _God_ , you know?”

Shiro jerks away at the blasphemy of the statement, lip curling in disgust and fury, and Keith only laughs.

“Human expression.  Don’t take it personally, Feathers.  There’s a lot more that you should be worried about.”  His left hand slides down from Shiro’s shoulder to his chest, and he squeezes gently at a pectoral before heading lower.  Shiro looks away, willing his mind to ignore the foreign and oddly exhilarating sensations of being touched so… intimately.

Human potential may be limitless, but their bodies are weak and useless.

The hand slides down to Shiro’s thigh, then reaches around to grab the back of it.  With a gasp, Shiro finds it yanked forward to bracket Keith’s waist.

“You’d probably like that, actually.  Get off on the thought that someone, one of these pathetic mortals, might walk in on is—will _definitely_ walk in on us, see the mighty archangel Shiroganiel being defiled.”  Shiro shudders at the thought, in revulsion—this has to be—and Keith leans in to nose at Shiro’s jaw.

“If I’ve learned one thing,” he breathes, hot on Shiro’s skin, “it’s that the uptight ones are always the kinkiest when allowed to let loose.”

Shiro screws his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and refusing to respond.  Keith is right about one thing: Keith _could_ do this to Shiro here, and Shiro wouldn’t—he could stop him, but that would break Shiro’s end of the deal.  So Shiro will allow it, if this is the only option.

“God, you’re gonna be so gorgeous when I take you apart.”

The elevator dings, and Shiro jumps, eyes flying back open.  Keith withdraws as the doors open, and Shiro lets out a soft sigh of relief.

Still, it’s cut short when he catches sight of Keith’s delighted smirk.  Keith tugs at Shiro’s sleeve, leaning in so close that his lips brush Shiro’s ear.

“We’ll save that for later.”

Two humans step into the elevator, eyeing the two of them—Keith, mostly—disapprovingly.  Shiro resolutely ignores them, but Keith turns to face them, reaching an arm around behind Shiro and tucking a hand into the back pocket of his suit pants.

They jerk backwards as their gazes settle on Keith’s face, taking in the red of his irises, the black of everything else.  The woman grips the man’s arm, turning away.  Keith chuckles, soft and low, ad their expressions.

“I can’t wait to make you scream,” Keith murmurs, just loud enough for everyone in the elevator to hear.  Shiro’s face burns, uncertainty and shame rising within him.

The doors ding once again, and the two humans practically flee the moment they open.

“I love mortals,” Keith sighs happily.  “So lively.  So reactionary.  You don’t get that from demons.  Or most angels, for that matter.”

“We don’t allow ourselves to be swayed by such petty attempts at antagonism.”

“Well, as I was about to say, I like you so much because you’re the same way.”

Shiro feels himself bristle, eyes narrowing, his wings straining to flare out in indignation.  “I’m _nothing_ like—”

A finger against his lips cuts him off, the smell of leather and wood smoke filling his nose.

“Admit it, Feathers.  You’re the only winged snob left whose temper has _heat._ ”

The finger slowly pulls back, and Shiro lifts his chin, fixing Keith with a piercing stare.  “Righteous anger has always been a tool of the Lord.”

“Oh, shut up, Feathers.”

With that, Keith takes Shiro’s face in two gloved hands and kisses him.

Shiro doesn’t resist as Keith pulls him down, their lips meeting for the second time in three days.  They’re surprisingly soft, the motion gentle, and he finds himself gasping quietly at the strange sensation unfurling in his chest.  It has a strange thrill to it, almost exciting.

He closes his eyes and leans into it.  Just a little.

Keith pulls back with a delighted gasp.

“You kissed me back.”

Shiro’s eyes fly open, the accusation twisting cold in his gut.

“I did _not._ ”

“Oh, you _so_ did.”  Keith’s sharp incisors gleam as he places his hands on the wall, one on each side of Shiro’s head.  “Do you even know what that means?  Have you ever kissed anyone before me?”  Shiro scoffs, turning his head away and rolling his eyes.  “You don’t have to answer that question.  I already know, and I know how much you _hate_ to lie.”

The elevator dings once again, sparing Shiro from having to answer the question.

“Let’s go, Feathers,” Keith drawls, snagging Shiro’s tie and dragging him into the hallway.  Shiro allows himself to be led, the pressure around his neck yet another strange sensation; it seems to only exacerbate the tingle in his chest.

The heartbeat of this human form increases.  Lack of oxygen, perhaps; he knows that respiring creatures experience odd sensations when deprived of it.

Keith swipes the keycard in front of the door, then shoves it open with one leather clad shoulder, Shiro following along with every movement of his fingertips.

“Look at this luxury, huh?  Somehow I doubt heaven even comes close to comparing.”

He finally releases Shiro’s tie, and Shiro pulls back, panting, straightening his tie and clearing his throat.

“Heaven isn’t—you can’t compare it to a physical place, Keith; it’s on a completely different plane of existence.”

Keith took one look at Shiro’s perturbed expression and burst into laughter.

“Okay, okay!  Fine, I’ll remember that.  I won’t—I don’t fuckin’ know, ‘mischaracterize’ it again if it bothers you that much.”

Shiro huffs, looking away with what is certainly not a pout at the notion that Keith might be mocking him.  “Thank you.”

Keith saunters off to the bar, and Shiro takes the opportunity to look around.

A lovely cherry wood stretches along the walls, framed by a molding of pale gold.  A chandelier of crystal hangs from the ceiling, and while Shiro doesn’t ascribe much value to human currency, he gets the impression that any single item of furniture within the room would be enough to feed a starving family for months.

The thought leaves him gritting his teeth.

“What are we even going to do with this much space?” he asks irritably.

Keith, hidden by the half-wall, hums.  “Oh, I think we’ll figure something out—hey, this is my favorite kind of kirsch!”

A clanking, and he finally pops back up from behind the bar, tossing liquids carelessly into a glass.  “Can I get you anything?”

“No,” he says flatly.  He doesn’t know how his form will react to alcohol, and he’d rather not risk it.

Keith just shrugs, pouring an orange liquid with a devil on the label into the mix.

“Time to get comfortable.”  He strides over to the plush cream armchair and flops down with a grunt.  Shiro makes to sit on the couch across from him, but Keith lifts his hand in protest.  “Ah-ah!”

Shiro shoots Keith an irritated look.  “What do you want, Keith?”

“Oh, you know.”  Keith settles back in the chair, propping his ankle up on one knee, glass dangling from his fingers, a wicked grin on his face.  “I want you to take off your clothes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this shit has gotten so long which is why it took forever the next installment won't be nearly as long of a time I swear!!!!
> 
> also yo check out my [Pool Boy Keith/Trophy Husband Shiro AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15947669) that I'm updating concurrently~

The words ring in Shiro’s ears, and he distantly registers relief that he had declined the drink.  He would have spat it out.

“ _ What? _ ”

“You heard me.”  The corner of Keith’s lip curls up.  “Off. All of them. Start with the jacket.”

Shiro scoffs, the now-familiar burning in his cheeks rising once again.  But he knows he can’t say no, and instead of speaking, he shucks off the jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch.

“Hey now.  Not so  _ fast. _ ”

Shiro shoots him a disdainful look.  “Then what, Keith? The faster I undress, the faster we—”

“Yeah, take your time.  I wanna  _ enjoy _ it.  Y’know, unwrap it slowly.  Like a present.” He winks over at Shiro, then takes a sip of his drink.  “You might discover you enjoy it, too.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”  The words are harsh on Shiro’s tongue, but his movements slow as he removes the suit jacket, this time laying it carefully over the couch.  He looks away as he carefully unbuttons the vest, and although he can’t see them, Keith’s eyes burn into him with an almost tangible searing heat.  That heat seems to have pooled within Shiro, too, settling in his gut—that which hasn’t risen to his cheeks, of course.

He slows even more as he slips the tie over his head, then unbuttons the crisp, white shirt.  As he peels it off, he risks another glance over at Keith.

Those dark eyes haven’t left the sight of Shiro’s skin, locked onto the flesh with an unexpected ferocity, lips curled into a smirk of anticipation.

“Stop.”

Shiro does, jaw tightening again as he meets Keith’s eyes.  “Again? Really?”

“Oh, let me play with my food before I eat it.”

“I have no intention of being—!  And even if—my form, you couldn’t—”

“Oh, can it, Feathers.”  Keith downs the rest of his drink and clacks the glass onto the side table.  He stands, closing the gap between the two of them in a few effortless steps.

Shiro inhales, but doesn’t exhale, an automatic response to such close, intimate proximity.

He swallows as Keith traces a finger down Shiro’s jaw, then neck, then down his sternum and to his abdomen.  It traces idly across the line of pale hair stretching from his navel and disappearing underneath his waistband.  Though objectively, he knows that Keith’s body heat can’t be much warmer than the average human, it seems to leave tiny flames in its wake.

“God,” Keith breathes.  “You’re fucking gorgeous.”  His eyes dart back up to meet Shiro’s.  “I never could figure it out. Is that intentional?  Do all of you moths just  _ choose _ to be beautiful motherfuckers when you take human form, or is it just supposed to be some sort of… confirmation of how you’re just  _ better _ than the rest of us?”

Shiro swallows, head turning away to watch the skyline, instead.  “I… I didn’t choose this form, no. It’s just an embodiment of ourselves, I suppose.  A representation of what we might look like—who we might be—if we weren’t… if we were human.”  He shrugs, still refusing to look at Keith, to think about how uncomfortably close they stood. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Just like any other beautiful person,” Keith sighs, then places a palm against Shiro’s chest.  “Well, at least I get to enjoy this.”

Shiro shakes his head, but says nothing.  The second hand presses up against Shiro’s ribs, chilly from the drink, and Shiro shivers.

“But you have one thing on all of them,” Keith muses, and Shiro turns back to look at him, curious despite himself.

“What’s that?”

Keith grins.  “You’re adorable.”

Shiro opens his mouth to protest; nothing comes out but sputtering.

Keith’s arms slide around Shiro’s waist, and he pulls him close, their chests touching, the cotton of Keith’s shirt unexpectedly soft against Shiro’s stomach.

He’s never noticed before that Keith barely comes up to his shoulder.

“Kiss me, Shiro,” Keith breathes, and Shiro thinks distantly that when Keith isn’t being a sarcastic little shit, his voice is kind of nice.  Raspy. Husky.  _ Sexy. _

He leans down, pressing his lips gently to Keith’s, hesitant and unsure.

The kiss stays sweet and chaste for approximately three seconds.

Keith groans, leaning forward, twining his arms around Shiro’s neck to press them flush against each other.  His tongue slides into Shiro’s mouth once again, licking deeply, humming softly. Shiro doesn’t realize that his lips have willingly parted until he tastes Keith, hints of alcohol and cherry and cinnamon.

The heat doesn’t stop on his tongue, growing in his chest, in his gut, between his—

He pulls away, gasping, and his eyes take several moments to focus.  Keith is watching him, smirk gone, eyes burning into him like the fires of hell itself.

“Fuck,” Keith growls, fingers fumbling at the buttons on Shiro’s pants.  Shiro grips Keith’s shoulders, swaying a little on his feet, as moments later a sensation rushes through him that Shiro can only describe as pure, unfiltered pleasure.

“Oh, you like this,” Keith breathes, palm gently cupping between Shiro’s legs, fondling at the growing erection.  Shiro gasps at the pressure, the unfamiliar sensation that buzzes through his legs and reminds him, in a strange way, of flying.  “You’re gonna be amazing in bed.”

Shiro manages to fumble for Keith’s wrist, grabbing it with the strength he has left and lifting it away from his crotch.

“I—I won’t be tricked,” he manages to gasp against Keith’s lips.  “I know our terms. I’ll need—proof, of—that you—that I—”

Keith draws back, watching Shiro struggle with interest.  “Proof of what, Shi…” His eyes widen, and he laughs in delight.  “Shiro, you mean proof that you  _ came? _ ”

Shiro fights to glare through the haze of arousal.  “Why are you laughing?”

“Oh, baby,” Keith purrs, leaning in and sliding his hands down Shiro’s muscular back.  “Trust me, you’ll know it when it happens.”

His lips capture Shiro’s once again before Keith maneuvers him back onto the couch, fingers yanking greedily at the buttons and zipper of his pants, shoving them down Shiro’s hips and exposing the sensitive skin of Shiro’s cock.  Shiro shudders as slim fingers wrap around it, thumbing at a spot below the head, and he whimpers at the thrill that rushes through him.

“K-Keith,” he manages to choke out, but the lips refuse to grant Shiro any relief, instead continuing to kiss him relentlessly, and Shiro finds his own tongue tangled with Keith’s.  He’s not sure when he found himself guilty of kissing back, but as he moans into Keith’s mouth and Keith groans into his, he can’t find room for a single shred of regret.

“Fuck, Shiro,” Keith gasps out, pulling back for only long enough to finish stripping Shiro and toss the remaining clothing to the side, then diving in for another hungry kiss.  It lasts for several more seconds, and this time, when he pulls back, Shiro chases Keith’s lips with his own. “You’re gonna feel so good. C’mon, roll over.”

Shiro groans at the thought of not being able to kiss Keith any longer, but the pressure lifts, and he clumsily pushes himself up on one elbow when Keith pulls back.  His gaze lingers on the sight of Keith peeling off the leather jacket, tossing it on the low table—to his distant amusement, he can see the words “Bad as Hell” stitched onto it—but Keith pauses midway through lifting off his shirt.

“I told you to roll over.”  This time, he says it in a sharper voice, and something within Shiro jumps at the order.  He’d tell himself that it’s not alacrity that he feels when he obeys, but he isn’t sure if he’d be lying.

The softness of the pillow presses into Shiro’s cheek.  He settles on his stomach, turning to watch Keith undress with rapt attention.

In contrast to Shiro’s human form, Keith’s seems to be almost half the width at the shoulders, but bone structure aside, he still maintains a respectable level of muscle—lean, lithe, not skinny.  Well-defined abdominals flex underneath taut skin as Keith pulls the white shirt over his head, and as he pulls it free, hair mussed from the motion, he spots Shiro watching.

Keith grins, sharp and hungry.

“Like what you see, Feathers?”

Shiro’s face flushes, and Keith reaches out to trace a finger down the dip of Shiro’s spine, laughing at the shudder it elicits.  “What’s the matter? All that lust getting to you? Not used to being on equal level with us sinners, huh?”

Shiro lets out a gasp of ragged, embarrassed laughter, turning away, though he can’t escape what is now a palm sliding dangerously close to his waist.  “No. It’s not—desire, that’s not sin. Neither is the act. Sex is—it can be beautiful, and wonderful, and something that people are meant to  _ enjoy _ together—”

He cuts off with a gasp as Keith unapologetically grabs one of Shiro’s ass cheeks.

“Then why so embarrassed?”

Shiro only groans and buries his face in the pillow.  He doesn’t want to have this discussion, doesn’t want to tell that it’s not inherently the sex, but the individual  _ involved _ that—

A sharp, fleeting crack of pain as Keith lightly slaps what he’d been groping moments before, and Shiro yelps.  “What—!”

“Shhh,” Keith practically croons, stroking over the spot soothingly.  “There’s so much you don’t know about sex, Shiro, and I can’t wait to be the one to show you.”

Shiro can only let out another soft groan at the hand soothing the remnants of pain on his ass cheek.  He hides in the pillow once more, the now-undeniable arousal throbbing in his cock as it drags against the fabric of the sofa cushions. 

But he quiets, and he listens.

Keith continues to run gentle fingers down the dip of Shiro’s spine, and Shiro can feel himself beginning to tremble slightly.

He almost loses himself, possibly does for a moment, the foreign sensation of skin against his own strangely enticing.  There’s a slight tingling all over, possibly Shiro’s imagination, and he thinks he might be able to feel Keith’s hungry eyes on him…

A finger slides in between Shiro’s cheeks, then presses against his entrance, drawing an involuntary hiss from his lips.  Keith had apparently slicked it with something beforehand and Shiro forces himself to stay still at the intrusion—a not entirely pleasant sensation.  He tightens around it involuntarily as it pushes deeper, turning it from uncomfortable into almost painful.

Keith stops.

“You need to relax, Shiro,” he murmurs.  “Otherwise, it’ll hurt.”

Shiro turns his head, watching Keith with a wary expression.  “And why would you care about that?”

Keith’s eyes flick to Shiro’s, and despite the distraction, Shiro thinks he might see a flash of surprise, even anger, within them.

But his expression immediately smooths back over, a faint smirk settling across his face.

“You gotta enjoy yourself if I’m gonna get my hands on you more than once.  And trust me, that’s what I want here.”

Of course.  At least Shiro is safe, for as long as this deal lasts.

He exhales, filing away that information somewhere he never has to access it again.  Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Shiro forces himself to relax.

The finger begins to move again once he does.  As it slips further into him, Shiro takes measured breaths and shifts, just a bit.  Shiro can feel his body growing used to the intrusion: still not pleasant, but no longer unpleasant, either.  Simply… there.

It continues until a second finger joins it, requiring the same amount of adjustment, and soon, Shiro doesn’t even have to consciously relax.

Keith’s fingers curl, deliberately seeking, and Shiro lets out a shocked yelp as what is undeniably  _ ecstasy _ sweeps through him.  A dark laugh sounds from above, and it takes a moment for Shiro to realize that he’s arched his hips back in an unconscious plea for more.

“Enjoying yourself?” Keith rasps, and the words send an unexpected shiver down Shiro’s spine.

Shiro considers answering for a few moments, but then decides that in this case, wisdom is silence.  Instead, he closes his eyes, waiting for more of that elusive sensation.

Keith does not disappoint.  It’s a slow movement, and deliberate, and as he strokes his fingers within Shiro, he continues to send waves of pleasure rolling through him, growing in intensity with every moment that passes.  Shiro soon finds himself growing lost in the moment, reduced to helpless moaning and writhing under Keith’s ministrations. His fingers grip the fabric of the couch so tightly that he thinks it might tear.

“Wow,” Keith breathes, voice huskier than it had been just moments before.  “You’re… you’re even better at taking it than I thought you would be.”

Shiro lets out a choked noise that’s a combination between a scoff and a laugh, turning to glare unsteadily in Keith’s direction.

For his part, Keith only offers an unrepentant smirk.

“You’re a tightass.  ‘Course I thought about loosening it up a little.”

He punctuates the words with another forceful thrust of his hand, and Shiro cries out, arching his hips back again and groaning.

By the time Keith pulls his fingers out, Shiro finds himself groaning again, but this time in protest.  He’s not sure what to do with this, with any of it: the yearning burns through him to his very  _ core _ ; he knows that he needs  _ something _ —

Through his haze, he hears the sound of a zipper, and he turns his head to see Keith slowly peeling off leather pants.

He has to swallow, mouth unexpectedly dry, as he took in the slim waist, the dark trail of hair, the sharp hipbones, the enticingly lithe figure baring itself for Shiro…

He blames taking this physical form for burdening him with such carnal desires.  If he were still a celestial being of pure energy, this never would have happened.

Keith’s eyes slide to Shiro once again, unashamedly naked, his flushed cock standing proud. As their gazes meet, heat rises in Shiro’s cheeks and he has to look away.

Shiro can hear Keith moving closer, and he closes his eyes.  The pounding thunders louder in his ears, and he’s shaking again, anticipation and anxiety bitter in the back of his throat.

Surprisingly gentle fingers thread through his hair, smoothing it down.  “Just relax,” Keith breathes.

And Shiro tries.

Keith’s hands—still in their gloves—grip Shiro’s thighs, nudging them apart, and the inexorable sensation of eyes  _ devouring _ him increases.  The couch cushion dips underneath Shiro’s hips as Keith settles between his legs, and a thrill of fear and elation shoots through every nerve in this constructed body.

He shivers as those hands run down his muscular back in a clear act of appreciation, reverence, almost worship.  Then he shivers again at the near-blasphemy of the thought.

Keith spreads Shiro gently, and something that is distinctly  _ not _ fingers begins to press inside.

Shiro gasps, and though he’d expected to find the sensation unpleasant, as he relaxes around Keith in the way he’d grown used to, the pain and discomfort is merely a faint warning in the back of his mind.  Keith pushes deeper, settling inside Shiro and filling him more intimately than he ever could have expected. In comparison, the fingers are a distant memory; Keith keeps going and going and, for what feels like an eternity, it doesn’t seem as if he’s going to stop.

But then, as soon as Shiro isn’t sure he can bear anymore, Keith stills.

Shiro gasps underneath him, tightening instinctively around the thickness inside of him, loosening as it grows uncomfortable once again.  In response, Keith lets out a low, desperate groan.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Feathers,” he gasps raggedly.  “Gonna be the goddamn death of me.”

Shiro doesn’t have the wherewithal to allow himself more than a fleeting thought of lecturing him for the blasphemy.

The heat of Keith’s chest presses up against Shiro’s back, and though he can’t cover him completely, a pair of lips presses against each of Shiro’s shoulderblades, first one, then the other, a slight nip at the second sending a little flash of pain through his skin.

“Think I can make you lose control?” Keith pants, nosing at the sharp bone as Shiro groans underneath him, struggling to adjust to the foreign, overwhelming sensation of being so full.  “When you get worked up, don’t these come out? Maybe when you—”

Shiro cuts him off with a sharp cry, drawn from him unexpectedly as Keith rolls his hips.  Despite the idleness of the motion, the clear lack of intent behind him, it presses up against that spot inside him and sends a rush of pleasure through him.

Has it happened already?  Has Shiro consigned himself to yet another night of this unique... torture?

“W-was… was that…?” he manages, then groans again at yet another roll of Keith’s hips, tilting his head back, arching into it.

“Wh—an… an orgasm?”  A ragged laugh rips free from Keith’s throat.  “Fuck, Shiro, not yet. Not even close.”

Before Shiro can question him further, Keith thrusts forward again, this time a little harsher and with a little more finesse.  Shiro yelps, arching into the movement once again, and a gloved hand curls around his neck, tilting his head back at an angle that’s just on the right side of painful.

“C’mon, Feathers.  Take it like I know you want it.  God, look at you, spreading open so pretty for me—you were made for this.”

Shiro can’t even bring himself to protest mentally, let alone out loud.  There’s something inside him that Keith has awoken, a need to acquiesce, to submit, to serve, terrifyingly like—

No.  He won’t allow himself to think about that, not as entwined with the embodiment of sin as he is.

But—he does give in, does allow himself to succumb to the base desires that tempt this body, and as Keith yanks him up, thrusting roughly into him, over and over, Shiro stops resisting, letting Keith do what he pleases.

It startles Shiro to learn that he loves every second of it.

The pounding continues relentlessly, opening Shiro for Keith’s pleasure as he takes what he wants and leaves a wreck in his wake.  Shiro can feel the muscles in his arms begin to strain—a phantom pain, not indicative of any real danger, but a startling reminder of the limitations of human physique.  If this were all they had, if there were no greater forms that surpassed this plane of existence, Keith had him so vulnerable that he could do… anything.

The thought sends a delicious thrill of terror through him.

 

His cock responds, aching even more at the way it presses against the cloth of the couch.  The friction from both sides leaves him gasping and dizzy, and he cries out again as Keith’s rhythm increases, speeding up until he’s pounding into Shiro with such force that his teeth click together. 

Shiro doesn’t know why or how he enjoys it; by all rights, the pain should dampen the pleasure, not heighten it.  But they go together all too well, and despite the seeming carelessness of his motions, with every thrust, Keith sends Shiro higher towards the promise of a peak of pleasure.  Shiro can hear his mouth continuing to cry out with each movement of Keith’s that he matches with his own. They’ve fallen into a rhythm, clumsy as Shiro’s part might be, and Keith absolutely devours him.

Hot lips press to Shiro’s neck, the top of his spine, and teeth find his shoulder and sink into it demandingly.  Shiro keens as Keith comes dangerously close to breaking skin, the filthy sound of slapping echoing through the room as his thighs meet Shiro’s, and curse everything, he’s coming so close to  _ something _ and he doesn’t know what it is, but he  _ needs _ it—

A harsh cry from above him, and he feels Keith tense above him, fingers digging into Shiro’s shoulders with a force that would be hard enough to bruise if Shiro had the blood for it.  He thrusts thrice more, and then something warm fills him as a low, filthy groan rumbles above him. Shiro gasps at the intimacy of the sensation, which leaves him with an unshakable sense of being marked indelibly.

And Keith doesn’t move.

Shiro waits, taut as a wire, for him to continue to move, to bring Shiro closer, but…

“K-eith?” he finally manages, voice cracking, as Keith only continues to pant above him.

And then he hears a dark, satisfied laugh, and he realizes that whatever Keith has planned, he’s in trouble.

“You really want this, don’t you?”  Keith’s voice is hoarse, but there’s a gleeful note to it that can only mean trouble.  He rolls his hips slowly, tauntingly, and Shiro can only shiver violently at the promise of pleasure that doesn’t quite deliver.  The expectation, the  _ demand _ , lingers so thick in the air that Shiro can taste it.

He knows what he has to do.

“Yes,” he whispers, shuddering again, and his head spins at the foreign sensation of tears springing to his eyes.  “Yes, Keith, I…  _ please. _  I  _ need _ it!”

His voice cracks again as he begs,  _ sobs _ , and in that moment, there’s nothing that Keith could ask for that Shiro wouldn’t give him.

And then that discomfort again, stretching Shiro open, and Keith moves slowly… as he pulls completely out.

Shiro can only gasp for several moments, Keith’s release spilling out of him and coating his thighs.  And there’s still that burning need inside of him, the hunger that Keith has yet to satisfy.

But Keith braces himself on Shiro’s back, pushing himself to standing, and takes a few steps back.

That’s it?  That’s  _ it? _  Shiro’s spinning head begins to settle into confusion and frustration and even  _ anger. _  He manages to push himself onto an elbow, turning to stare at Keith with incredulity.

“What...?”

Keith takes a moment to come back to himself, but as he shakes his head briefly, he seems to remember that Shiro is there.

His smile is tired, yes, but there’s satisfaction in it, too.

“Don’t get comfortable.  That? That was just for me.  I’m not even close to done with you, yet.”

Shiro shakes his head as well, though he’s not sure what he’s denying.  “You… I didn’t… why…?”

Keith steps forward once more, leaning down to catch Shiro’s mouth in a rough, punishing kiss.  Shiro’s cock strains, leaking desperately, and thoughts spin wildly within his head. Keith licks into his mouth, satisfied and lingering, and when he pauses, Shiro begins to realize just how very, very long Keith intends this evening to be.

“Oh, Feathers,” Keith breathes against his lips.  “You didn’t think I’d make it that easy, did you?”


End file.
